


Bucket List

by heylifeitsemily



Series: One Step Forward, Two Steps Back [1]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Bucket List, Death, F/M, Français | French, Reader-Insert, fem!reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 14:46:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2736473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heylifeitsemily/pseuds/heylifeitsemily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>70 hours left, a failed meeting, and still so much left to do. Stargazing, waltzing, skydiving...</p><p>So much left to do, and maybe even someone to share it with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Attachante

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was reading through this again, because I am self-absorbed and very proud of some of this, and saw some mistakes, so I'm just editing in this update (22/09/15). Added a bit of an update to the end notes if you want to check it out.

It was fair to say you were well acquainted with death; not only in a personal manner, but in your profession. Being a mercenary paid well, most of the time, and in exchange for a decent living and more than decent thrill, you tried to accept death. It was an inevitable part of life, probably occurring sooner rather than later with your line of work.

You were never ready for it, per say. There had been more than enough sleepless nights dreading the morrow’s battle, nausea worsening with every flash of your body, bruised and bloody out in the gravel pits. Maybe Medic wouldn’t get there fast enough, or the wound would be too severe regardless. You were never going to be ready, and perhaps you’d always be scared, but you managed to stop the constant worrying.

The team was more than enough of a distraction, most of your attention going towards engaging in and cleaning up their antics. Quite the cast of characters, and despite their many, many faults, they were the best of the best. A dysfunctional family, but a remarkable team.

Or at least a kind of efficient one. One that made mistakes very frequently. And got into fights with one another, also very frequently. More a sort of strategic, slightly dysfunctional team made up of unlikely friends, united by some mutual loathing, deadpan snark, and a common goal. You’d learned to trust them, whether it was Mundy shooting unseen threats, Scout racing ahead and clearing a path, or Medic rushing to your aid.

The fear of death was still ever-present, wading in the back of your mind, but how could it not? You were paid to commit murder; it was only a matter of time before you met your own.

But you’d always thought it’d be fast, in the heat of battle, a butterfly knife in the back or a round of minigun bullets lodged in your chest. Still excruciatingly painful, but you hoped the perpetrator would be merciful enough to put you out of your misery. It was meant to be sudden, agonising and entirely unexpected, with no idea of how or when.

Turns out it was three days, tumours metastasizing steadily in your body, and now you were sat around the base’s card table with your soon-to-be-dead teammates, excluding Dell and Medic. They were still working on a way to save your lives, but it seemed a lost effort with so little time. You look between Mundy and Tavish, tapping your fingers against your leg. Everyone was usually scattered, and it was rather sad that something so depressing brought you all together.

“This is a bucket,” Spy says, placing one on the table.

“Dear God,” Soldier exclaims, and you breathe in, trying not to laugh.

“There’s more,” Spy continued.

“No!” Soldier says, and you disguise the giggle as a cough, smirking and resting your head on Tavish’s shoulder.

“This bucket contains the dying wish of every man –  ”

You clear your throat, raising an eyebrow at the masked Frenchman.

“And woman,” he adds, “here. Scout, you did collect everyone’s dying wish?”

“You bet!” You wish he was telling the truth, but if the half-hearted salute was any indication, a crass joke was on course instead.

“Excellent. Lady and gentlemen, synchronize your death watches.”

You examine the contraption on your wrist, something Dell had thrown together before he went off to experiment. You press the button carefully, a faint beeping echoing throughout the room as the others do the same. Another deep breath, and you watch briefly as the numbers begin to count down. _70:00:00 69:59:59 69:59:58 …_

“We have 70 hours to live. For most men, no time at all,” Spy circles the table, the cigarette in his hand leaving a faint trail of smoke. Patting Heavy’s shoulder, he meets your gaze, a familiar conviction in his voice. “We are not most men. We are mercenaries! We have the resources, _the will_ , to make these hours count. The clock is ticking, gentlemen. Let’s begin.” He’s standing in front of the bucket again, surveying our faces.

It’s a noble idea, attempting to fulfill everyone’s last wishes, and Spy is nothing if not noble. He pulls a stack of cue cards out from the bucket, glancing down at the first one.

“Our first dying wish is Scout’s,” he says, an earnest and rather rare smile resting on his features. “He’s,” he pauses, faint grin dissipating into a scowl. “Drawn a picture of me getting hit by a car.”

 _Damnit, Scout,_ you think, bracing yourself for Spy’s reaction. He brings the card closer to his face, eyes narrowing at the sketch.

“I have something radiating off of me,” he says, voice growing colder by the word.

“Yeah, those are stink lines!” Scout smiles, turning to us. “That’s why the car hit ‘em. ‘Cause he smells.” You groan softly, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“Yes, I see,” Spy acknowledges, sounding wholeheartedly unimpressed. “Here you have drawn me having sexual congress with the Eiffel Tower.” Someone laughs at that one, and you sink further into your seat, feeling just as exasperated as Spy. “Eiffel Tower having sexual congress with me.” _Of course, naturally._ “Both of us relaxing post-coitus.”

Scout chuckles into his shoulder, and if he weren’t across the table, you’d punch him. This wasn’t a joke, and even if he had to make it one, as a coping mechanism or whatever, there was a time and a place. 70 hours from your death surrounded by your dying comrades was certainly not it.

“I’m crying and the Eiffel Tower has stink lines coming off of it – did anyone besides Scout put a card into the bucket?” He looks at all of us in turn, disappointment and irritation radiating off of him.

“Classic Scout,” the boy in question murmurs, and you are _absolutely_ going to punch him in the next 70 hours, even if it’s the last thing you do.

“Fantastic, this was a huge waste of my time,” Spy exhales, turning away from the group.

You put your head in your hands, tuning out the others for a moment. It isn’t that you really care about Scout pulling stupid shit, because Scout is always pulling stupid shit. And you don’t feel bad for Spy – he had to have known it was going to be a wasted effort. Really, it has nothing to do with your dying wish at all – you just want a distraction, and 70 hours of what would have likely been explosions and drinking would've easily sufficed.

“See you all in hell,” Spy announces to the emptying room, taking out another cigarette. You remain at the table, moving to sit up properly in your seat. You rest your elbows on the surface, crossing your legs as you turn to meet his stare.

He looks more worn out than usual, mask not quite covering the growing dark circles under his eyes. The casual dismissal of the team made light of his annoyance, but he’s clearly occupied with more than just anger at Scout. He looks tired, defeated even.

“Any last wishes, mademoiselle?” He says, covering up his frustration with conversation.

“A few, I suppose,” you reply, happy to engage in some sort of diversion from the weight settling in your limbs. The sinking feeling in your stomach is getting worse by the second, your fingers tapping out a beat against the table involuntarily. _Distractions, need distractions_.

Spy inclines his head, waiting for you to continue.

“Haven’t been skiing in a while,” you muse. “Always wanted to try skydiving. And cliff jumping. Been years since I went to a bonfire,” you list absentmindedly, fingers tapping away.

Spy moves to sit down across from you, brightening eyes never leaving yours as he pulls out a chair.

“Wanted to meet Frankie Valli, dance, ask him to sing something for me.” He cocks an eyebrow and you grin, eyes fluttering shut at the simple fantasy. Countless times you’ve imagined sitting in a bar, dolled up in wine red dress with a whiskey in hand, looking up to the stage to see him crooning ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’. Bonus points if his gaze is pinned on your lips. Valli wasn’t the most attractive guy in the world, but he had a sound you’ve never heard before, and you still can’t get enough of it.

He’d leave the stage and offer a dance, singing softly as you waltzed around. Or maybe he keeps on performing, and then a stranger asks to waltz, an indistinct figure holding you as Valli belts it in the background, the partner singing low and soft just for you to hear. If you were being honest, anyone singing to you had you wrapped around their finger, but Valli’s preferred, and if being serenaded is the last thing you do, you’re allowed to be picky.

And then there are flashes of family and friends, dinner parties and dances with people you haven’t seen in years. You frown, exhaling through your nose. “Should see my old pals again, maybe drive out into the middle of nowhere and look at the stars for a night.”

“Is that all?” he asks, somewhere in between seriousness and a joke as he places the cigarette between his lips, taking another drag.

“Everything conceivably doable in 70 hours, yeah.” You try to smile, wondering if you could keep up this exchange for the rest of your life.

“There is more?” He presses.

“Yeah,” you shrug, the rhythm in your fingers stalling for a moment.

“Tell me,” he says, more a request than a command. He stands and motions for you to join him, and you comply, following his lead out of the kitchen.

“The usual bucket list, nothing special really,” you assure him, walking two steps for each of his long strides.

“Indulge me.”

You watch as he lets out a puff of smoke, jaw tensing and relaxing as his mouth fell into a neutral line. Far different from the barely suppressed grimace from a minute ago, the tension that strained his shoulders and neck seemingly have released. _Calmer._ Maybe he needs the distraction too.

“Win a Nobel prize,” you start, and he chuckles, looking down at the floor.

“I take offense to that!” you laugh and continue on, not leaving him time to redeem himself. “Backpack across Europe, write a novel, learn another language – ”

“Don’t you already know four?”

“Cinq, en fait, mais j’ai voulu apprendre le Mandarin.” His grin widens, eyes crinkling the way they always do when you speak French with him. Though Mikhail and Medic have similar reactions when you converse in their mother tongue, something about seeing Spy unusually cheerful and just a tad proud made your ability to speak French feel that much more valued.

“Where was I?” Thousands of ideas dance around in your head, but which were worth sharing? “Oh, uh, practice medicine, have one last white Christmas, learn to play the saxophone, sing professionally – “

“You sing?” He asks, turning a corner.

“Yes, I do, and don’t bother asking me to sing for you, because I won’t.” you reply, unease diminishing with the each phrase of playful banter.

“But you have nothing to lose,” he reminds, smiling down at you, cigarette hanging from his parted lips. “And how is it that I’ve known you for years and I’ve never heard you sing?”

You turn again, and bump into him, just enough that he would recognize it was purposeful.

“You know, this’ll go a lot faster if you stop interrupting me,” you say. His face falls for a moment, and you watch as he tenses, posture straightening as he takes another drag. His eyes shut, and before you can inquire as to the issue, he recovers, turning to you again.

“What else?” He asks, tone quieter and flatter than before. _Messed it up._ You sigh internally, crossing your arms over your chest.

“What else?” you repeat, letting out a forced laugh. He does not mimic it, the unsuccessful attempt at salvaging the light demeanour bouncing off the concrete walls. You recount the previously listed endeavours mentally, counting them off with your fingers.

“That leaves,” you pause, glancing at your feet. _You’re a grown woman, Y/N, you can talk about relationships._ Your face feels warm, a smile slowly illuminating your features. “Falling in love.”

His steps slow for but a second, but he says nothing, simply cocking his head and waiting for you to resume. _As if there’s more to say_. You’d never been in love; how could you describe it?

His questioning stare is not deterred, eyebrow raised in a silent urge for you to continue. Your fingers tap irregularly against your forearm as you smile faintly at him, returning the same curious look. After a couple seconds you realize he isn’t going to relent, and you submit, racking your mind for a description of a state you’d never experienced.

“I don’t believe in love at first sight,” you began, turning yet another corner. “But I think you can sense when someone is going to matter to you, even in just the first few seconds of meeting them. It happens gradually, and you don’t really notice exactly how much they matter until one moment where everything just seems…” You wave your hand in the air, searching for the right word. “Content, serendipitous, perfect, I don’t know.

“And it doesn’t all fall into place right away. At first it’s awkward and funny and you’re both unsure, but you develop a sort of rhythm?” You inflection goes up, the not entirely rhetorical question left unanswered.

His eyes trace your movements, the twitches and subtle tics. It’s clear you have no idea what you’re talking about, the way you’re literally grasping for words, but it’s endearing. If there was a single word to describe you, aside from the obvious of sarcastic and surprising, that would be it. _Attachante._

“It’s all the little clichés,” you say, holding yourself tighter to compensate for your lack of expertise. “And simple but indescribable, and then you realize that you’re in love. And it’s not some big revelation, you know, or at least suspect for a while. And then you’re waking up and knowing there’s nowhere else you’d rather be but beside them. Singing them to sleep, listening to their heartbeat…” You trail off, watching Spy’s eyes close in reminiscence, the corner of his lip quirking upwards at the thought of some fond memory.

You never put any merit in his recollections of past lovers, not because the numbers seemed outrageous, but because he spoke with such fervour, such strong aeipathy, that you don’t think it’s possible he could love so many women so fiercely. And the bliss written in his face leads you to believe you’re right, at least partially. Perhaps there is someone he holds in higher esteem than the others, someone he truly loves in his collection of stories. If the placid smile is any indication, he’s devoted to her, unequivocally.

_Even for the oh-so suave and seductive Spy, love is insurmountable._

You’ve descended into a sort of peaceful silence, the mismatched pattern of your footsteps reverberating in the halls. He has one hand in his pocket, the other loosely gripping his cigarette as he paces, pleasant reverie still occupying his thoughts.

You eventually come to a stop in front of his smoking room, the grand wooden door still looking out of place in the concrete facility.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” you say, nodding to him.

“Would you like to join me?” He opens the door slowly, the stench of smoke and the more compelling aroma of booze flooding out into the hall.

You’d only been in twice before, once invited and the other a dare from Scout. Soft lighting from the fireplace, floor to ceiling bookshelves, and quite the impressive collection of wines. On your last visit, the array of books had caught your eye, and he had left you to tour them, opting to read on his own.

You had skimmed the shelves, a glass of utterly fantastic Chateau Latour accompanying the light reading. It was a rare period of stillness in the hectic everyday life on base. He had appreciated the silence, and you’d loved the small library, the only downside being the smoke clouding the air. You were tempted to borrow a novel or two, but after hours of sitting in his very limited personal space, you already felt that you’d imposed enough.

“You’d spend your final hours with me?” you joke, placing a hand over your heart in mock elation. Or it was part mockery, the other half genuinely surprised and warmed at the thought.

“Avec plaisir,” he says, allowing you to walk in before him.

The air is stale but breathable, everything placed precisely as you remember. There’s nothing haphazard about Spy, every action and design meticulous and calculated. It’s a nice change from the pig sty some of other mens’ quarters were.

He watches you for a moment, your eyes eagerly taking in the dark room. Your arms are again crossed over your chest, fingertips absentmindedly tapping a steady rhythm on your bicep. Your mouth parted just slightly in awe, lips chapped and a small smile pulling at the corners. _Attachante._

“Do you mind if I…” You point to the books, not bothering to hide the longing to immerse yourself in the pages. You’re all for being polite, but c’mon, you’re dying anyway.

“Please, go ahead,” he says, and you happily oblige.

There are no more bouts of conversation after that, reading becoming distraction enough for both of you. You settle into the corner’s plush chair with a randomly picked novel, the fire providing just enough light for you to read. The flames flicker, soft glow dancing along the walls, a silhouette of Spy’s stature and chair trembling on the carpet. A comfortable solace in what should be such a troubling time.

You don’t realize your humming softly, nor do you see Spy close his eyes and lean his head back into the chair, listening to the familiar tune. He turns to you, watching you gnaw gently at your lip as you turn another page.

The timer on his wrist blinks impatiently, _69:24:17 69:24:16 69:24:15…_

Your time was numbered.

You don’t notice him move to the record player in the corner, a smirk on his face as he places the record on the turn table. He watches you carefully, waiting to gauge your reaction.

At first you tune it out, smooth brass filling the darkly lit room and blending into the white noise. But then a figure is blocking your light, and you look up to see Spy’s thin form, a hand extended towards you.

“Would you like to dance?”

Your mouth runs dry, lips opening and closing for a few seconds before you nod, wordlessly taking his hand.

It’s sort of clunky and unnatural at first. You aren’t much of a dancer and you’re reminded with each trip, but he leads effortlessly, like he’s done it a thousand times before. The way he glides across the carpet and guides you, eyes closed as your head leans against his chest, he probably has.

_You’re just too good to be true_

_Can’t take my eyes off of you_

_You’d be like heaven to touch_

_I want to hold you so much_

His breath tickles the top of your head, hand on your waist relaxing as the chorus comes along. He spins you away from him, bringing you around so that your back is against his chest. He swings and you follow, struggling to stay composed and on beat as he spins you again. It’s embarrassing, but at the same time you’re having too much fun to care.

The trumpets grow louder, and you’re twirling and laughing, fumbling in the least graceful away and falling into his chest. Spy lets out what you think is a laugh, and then you devolve into swaying on the spot, a bit breathless. The song picks up again, but you’re too comfortable to adjust the pace,  instead moving closer to him and loosely connecting your hands around his neck. Your eyes close, contentment and exhaustion catching up with you.

He stares down at you, lip quirked in something that resembles a smile. His hands rest on your waist, spread palms spanning the length of your ribcage. Your chest expands with each breath, slowing from shallow to deep as you relax more and more in his arms.

He wishes he could see your eyes, the bright look of wonder and excitement as you read, as he lead you through the upbeat chorus.  The same eagerness that shone just before a new battle, or when Dell played something you requested, or the time you woke all of them up to see the sunrise. He’d complied, begrudgingly. Scout complained, Soldier had gone on and on about the importance of being awake before the enemy, and you had sat silently, watching the horizon, as if the rest of them weren’t even there.

Hair rustling in the gentle breeze, knees pulled up to your chest, and that light in your eyes. The softest kind of laugh fading into the wind, mind preoccupied with the reds and bronzes coming across the skyline.

_Attachante._

The song fades out, and you step back, curtsying jokingly. It’s cold for a moment, your body mourning the loss of contact as he meets your gaze, taking your hand and ever so slightly grazing it with his lips.

“Merci, ma chère.”

A chill travels down your spine, hairs on the back of your neck standing as you shakily reply.

“Je t’en prie.”

You both stand for a moment, hands clasping together in front of you as he stands up properly.

He’s always been taller than you, but now, both of you alone in the dusky room, the height difference is more apparent than ever. Your eyes rake his form, expensive shoes to fitted suit to the stubble on his chin, gaze meeting his uncharacteristically soft gunmetal blue irises. A hint of a smile, crows’ feet barely visible in the firelight.

Your cheeks burn as you look away, a spot on the carpet holding your attention. Red hues wound in an intricate pattern, warm and delicate as the rest of the room's design. Nice furniture, a collection of literature, expensive wines, and a well-dressed man to top it all off. How much better could your last few hours be?

He clears his throat, and you reluctantly look back, fingers tapping against your wrist as you fight against the instinct to avoid his stare.

He raises an eyebrow at the incessant tapping and darting eyes, sudden shyness clashing with the amiable demeanour from moments ago. You’re uncomfortable, maybe even a bit scared. It’s strange, how quickly you transitioned, but far stranger is the tightening in his chest, the worry creeping into his thoughts.

“I’ll,” you pause, steadying your voice. “I’ll leave you to it then.”

It’s not what you want at all, stomach dropping at the thought of leaving. You should stay, force yourself to see where this goes; you only have 70 hours to regret anything for anyway.

His shoulders fall, hand going to his jacket pocket to pull out a cigarette. You could never tell if it was a pleasure or a vice, and it’s starting to seem the latter.

You could dance again, hold him, kiss him. Hell, you might even sing to him if he asked.

Light-headed and watching the lit cigarette hang between his lips, you desperately want to stay.  But even if you’re dying, spontaneity can only carry you so far.

“Bonsoir,” he breathes.

You echo him as you open the door, a sinking in your chest. Was it better to regret that which you do or that which you don’t?

Halfway back to your room, you’re still contemplating.

Lying on your bed, you’re leaning towards an answer.

Falling asleep, you decide the latter is worse, but it’s a problem for the next morning.

Or when you’re aid is requested in teaching Scout how to dance.


	2. Stargazing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a translation of all the french at the end of the chapter, but it's probably best to read it as is first. Also, excuse my abysmal french. Enjoy!

There’s something ineffable about hearing Scout’s “You’re better than me, Spy” over the speakers. You almost feel bad for him – after all, it’s not easy to admit that someone you affront is superior. Then again, you couldn’t bring yourself to regret the elation bubbling up at the thought of his comeuppance. It was funny for its sheer absurdity more than anything else.

You had slept a couple hours, tossing, turning, and clock-watching, refusing to get out of bed until morning. Even after dawn you decided to stay in bed, ignoring the qualms of your stomach. You weren’t avoiding _him_ , per say. You were just enjoying time alone, away from _everyone_ – which just so happened to include Spy. Your determination waned as time passed, growling stomach begging you to get something to eat.

You threw on a robe and went down to the kitchen, where the boys had resituated themselves, save for Scout, Soldier and Spy. You’d never admit the soft sigh of relief upon seeing his absence, nor the way you scolded yourself for it.

Apparently you hadn’t been as casual as you would’ve liked. Tavish immediately commented on how you seemed off, and not just because you were wearing pajamas in the middle of the day. You had laughed then – a soft, tension-averting chuckle – but it was nothing compared to the raucous laughter around the table now.

Mundy had started it as the feedback from the speakers died out, a short bark of laughter that dissolved into silent shaking. His hand presses against his chest, a sort of disbelieving grin stretched across his face. Heavy’s laugh is a commanding sound, booming and thunderous as he slams his hand against the table, repeatedly. Pyro – well, you think he’s laughing; it’s sort of hard to tell. And Tavish is howling, gaining control for a moment before taking a great, wheezing breath and starting all over again.

The room’s uncontrollable mirth is infectious, tears in your eyes as you double over. Your chest shakes as you suck in deep breaths in an attempt to calm down. You must be on some kind of oxygen high, the whole room spinning as you wilt into your chair, sighing in a mixture of contentment and light-headedness. The beer bottles on the table have fallen over, the remainder of their contents dripping onto the floor.

“Where the ‘ell did that come from?” Mundy manages, leaning back into his chair. He sounds short of breath, wide smile audible.

“I dunno,” you say, placing your elbows on the table, “but I’m hardly complaining.”

Tavish laughs, slapping you on the back. “Agreed, lass. Agreed.” You smother your wince with a giggle, sensitive skin on your shoulder blades protesting at the gesture. The beer’s dripping has slowed, faint plops heard as each drop meets the concrete floor.

“Really, though,” Mundy presses. “Why would Scout say that? You think Spy was threatening ‘im?”

You stiffen at the mention of Spy, quickly rubbing your arms and pretending it was a shiver.

“For what, though? Ya think he’d be spending his last hours embarrassing the kid?” Tavish counters, raising an eyebrow at you. The incident with Scout had caused him to abandon it, but you really do seem off.

“Well, look at the stunt ‘e pulled yesterday,” Mundy argues. “You don’t think Spy would try and get back at ‘im for it?”

You consider it for a moment, but it doesn’t seem likely. If Spy was feeling petty enough to get revenge over something so small, he’d just stab Scout and be done with it. He _was_ one to hold a grudge, but he _wasn’t_ the type to threaten mindlessly. More likely to sit and let the rage simmer, take it out on something more deserving. And when it came to Scout, you just had to take these incidents in stride.

“You’re assuming the worst in people, Sniper,” you chide, patting his shoulder as you stood. “Probably just a harmless dare. Or some weird display of male dominance, I wouldn’t really know.”

Tavish snorts, watching you with concern as you start towards the fridge. Your deadpan wit is intact, quick and good-natured as always. But you aren’t holding yourself the way you normally do; you’re slouched a bit, shoulders tense as you hold your arms. Shrinking in on yourself. You look… defensive maybe, vulnerable in a way that doesn’t suit you.

He makes a mental note to keep an eye on you, see if it gets any worse.

The fridge is annoyingly sparse, as per usual, several Red Shed beer bottles taking up space that should be reserved for actual food. There’s a carton of milk, probably spoiled, strawberries that have seen better days, and half a sandwich. You knew better than to consider eating _that_. Grabbing the strawberries and a beer, you kick the fridge door shut and sit back down.

Taking a bite out of one of the riper looking berries, you spare a glance at the others around you. Mundy has his hat over his eyes, resting again after Scout’s declaration. Pyro’s reading, Heavy is staring rather intently at the table, and Tavish is – well then.

Tavish is staring at you, scrutinizing in a way that makes you feel exposed. Bringing your elbows in closer, you frown at him.

“S’nothing, don’t worry about it,” he says, waving a hand in a shooing motion. He looks a bit sheepish at having been caught, but it’s hardly the first time this has happened. He and Dell have always had a tendency to look after you, perhaps the result some internalized stereotype. Either way, you’ve always appreciated it.

Taking a bite of a particularly rancid berry, you gag, forcing yourself to swallow it rather than spit it out in front of present company.

“You know, we only have 58 hours left,” you try to ignore Mundy’s sharp intake of breath, “Is there any way we can get a better meal here?”

“Engineer is busy with the Doctor, can’t cook us breakfast,” Heavy replies, and there’s a sadness in his voice that makes your throat tighten. Sure, he isn’t always jovial, but he’s got this quiet wisdom and level-headedness about him. You tend to forget that he can experience the rest of the spectrum of emotion. You’re almost driven to find ingredients for him, if not for yourself, but you’re comfortable, and you all probably have 2 or 3 meals left. A gourmet dinner could wait ‘til tomorrow.

Silence ensues for the rest of your meal, _if you can even call this a meal_ , only your breaths and Pyro’s occasional flip of a page disturbing the unusual quiet. Unusual, but not entirely unwelcome. Though everyone’s mood had dropped dramatically with yesterday’s death sentence, the solemn environment did give way to some long sought after calm. The normally frenzied routine left little time where someone wasn’t shouting or arguing.

But the silence left time to think, about death and all its implications and intricacies. And you couldn’t bear to get into it; you’d combust if you dwelled on the thought.

So was it less painful to wade through old memories? No, but you do, the stillness giving old regrets an opportunity to resurge. Regrets for stupid slips of the tongue, for misguided actions that felt right at the time, and a few for things you never did at all. Things you should have done.

Taken that internship, finished that paper, swung by the house more often, stayed for the funeral instead of driving as far as you could go before pulling over and beating the ground until your chest hurt.

Staying instead of running. Always running.                  

 _Well, not now_. There’s no time to run. You _can_ , but it’ll just make a mess of things. And things around here have never been so good, while simultaneously being so bad.

And naturally your mind strays to Spy, because you ran _again._ It’s not just regretting what-ifs from yesterday, but from the entire time you’ve known him.

The day you first spoke French in his presence, an offhand comment about his butterfly knife, he’d been stunned into silence. His muteness had caught everyone off guard; speechlessness decidedly a rare occurrence for Spy. For a moment you worried you’d insulted him by accident, your French being a bit rusty, but then he had smiled. Eyes wide and mouth barely open, the corner of his lip twitching in unadulterated glee. It was as startling as it was unsettling, and even more so was his reply – rapid-fire and uncharacteristically excited French. You barely had time to make sense of it before Scout interrupted and whisked you off. And you wish you’d stayed, if just to see that smile again.

The first time you saw him injured, you nearly dropped your sickle in disbelief. He trudged through the compound, scarlet staining his jacket at an alarming rate. He grunted as he saw you, nodding forward towards the enemy with an implied _carry on._ You hastily obeyed, only after the adrenaline settled realizing you could’ve – _no, should’ve_ – helped, or at least waited until Medic arrived.

The morning you had forced them out of bed to watch the sunrise –  that was a whole medley of regrets. You’d sat separate from the group, a quick fix to get away from Scout’s whining and the initial stepping on one another as they sat down. As minutes passed a silence settled, eerie yet soothing in the time between dawn and the sunrise. It was gorgeous too, gingers and crimsons and hints of gold, streaked across the sky. You’d laughed out of pure incredulity, amazed that something could be so beautiful. And, though you’d never tell them, that you were lucky enough to share it with the people around you.

You tore yourself away from the sight to see the mens’ reactions, surveying them slowly. They hadn’t been keen on getting up, but you’d seen the wonder in their eyes, a silent victory you kept to yourself. Surprise overpowered the feeling of triumph when you looked to Spy, his eyes watching you in a sort of reverent contemplation. Heat blossoming in your cheeks and a chill traveling down your spine, you shied away, breaking the eye contact. After a moment of courage, small but grand, you moved closer to swat his arm.

_“Regarde le lever de soleil,” you whisper, purposely staring at the sky rather than the suited man next to you. A hint of a smile appears on his face in your peripheral, but his stubborn gaze remains steady on you. Nudging him with your elbow, you repeat yourself, a smidge more insistently._

_He’s undeterred, and maybe there’s a temporary lapse in judgement as you turn to face him, the idea to_ force _him to look seeming the best option at the time. You freeze halfway through the motion, a short gasp of breath falling past your lips as your hand grips his jaw, noses only a couple inches apart._

_Thumb brushing the scruff on his chin, stare tracing the contours of his cheekbones hidden just under the mask’s fabric, fleeting glances at his chapped lips and widening eyes._

_Logic and fear come back in a rush, and you gently turn his face towards the sunrise, swallowing a nervous gulp. Your knees come up to your chest, and you try to slow your breathing, praying he can’t hear the frantic thump of your heartbeat._

_“C’est beau, non?” You murmur, a gut reaction to the tension you’d created._

_“Oui,” he says, soft enough that if the wind had picked up you would’ve missed it._

_But you don’t miss the way he says it, eyes fixed on you._

You’d avoided him that entire day, a childish response, but he was far too tactful to mention it.

And last night…

Your thoughts are interrupted by a knock on the doorframe, Scout eying the group wearily. He’s pouting, brow furrowed as he crosses his arms over his chest. It’s a protection, a physical barricade himself from the onslaught of teasing about to erupt.

It tries to deliver, but each of Mundy’s comments is lost in his silent laughter, lanky frame doubled over as he holds out a shaking hand.

“Wait, wait,” he chokes out, “I just – “

“Listen, I don’t wanna hear a goddamn word,” Scout spits, but there’s a playful undertone, like he’s torn between anger and giddiness. “I just came down to ask Y/N about something.”

“What’s up?” You ask, straightening up in your chair.

“I’ll tell ya on the way,” he says, turning away, like he knows you’ll follow.

You _do_ , because even if Scout can be annoyingly presumptuous, you’re still curious to see what exactly he’s been getting up to. Standing up from the table, you push your beer towards Tavish and throw out the strawberry container.

“Clean up those bottles,” you order to no one in particular, following Scout out into the hall.

“Get dressed,” Tavish retorts, laughing softly as you flip him off.

You’re reminded that you’re still wearing just your nightgown and a plush crimson robe, a chill travelling up your legs as a well-timed draft comes through. The cold is uncomfortable, but far more concerning is how fidgety Scout’s being. Well, he’s always fidgeting, but this doesn’t seem to be out of the usual boredom. He still hasn’t offered an explanation, strangely quiet as his bandaged hands press together in front of him. His face twitches, shifting between half-smiles and worried scowls, and you’re sure this is the most pensive you’ve ever seen him. Mind moving at a thousand miles an hour, Scout’s always running.

You have that in common.

He bites his lip, teeth nearly tearing through flesh, and as much as you enjoy watching the gears turn in his head, you poke him in the shoulder.

He jumps a bit, flinching and letting out a nervous chuckle.

“Scared?” You say, suppressing a smile.

“Nah, nah,” he reassures. “I’m scared of ya when ya got a sickle in your hand, or that angry look on ya face, but ya aren’t so intimidating right now.”

“I could kill you without the sickle,” you say, playfully narrowing your eyes. Almost instinctively, you scope out weak spots, analyzing exactly where and how you could incapacitate him. You’re skilled, and anyone who underestimates you realizes their mistake soon enough.

“Yeah, but you’re in a nightie,” he counters. You laugh and look down again, fingers playing with the tie on your robe. It nearly reaches the floor, easily covering the yellow night gown under it and hiding the generous amount of leg that would’ve been on display. You grip the robe tighter, suddenly feeling very exposed.

“You got me there,” you smile, following him around a corner. “What do you want, anyway, Scout?” It wasn’t meant to sound that harsh, but as another breeze shoots by, you’re reminded that you really should change. You increase your pace, almost speed-walking now, since you had to take longer strides to keep up with Scout in the first place.

“Well, I uh, I,” he drifts off, a hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck. And that nervousness, so unnatural in place of Scout’s swagger and grandeur – it only ever arises with one subject.

“You asked her out,” you say in a quick breath, grinning wider at the shocked gape weighing down Scout’s jaw. “Did you?” His cheeks are flushing, and any ill will you had from yesterday has flown at the window at the thought of Scout and Pauling dating.

“You two are finally going around!” You jab him in the side, the grin on your face almost painful. It’s a weird kind of jubilation, pride rising up in your gut as you watch Scout splutter and blush.

“Nah, we aren’t uh, I haven’t, not yet!” He finishes lamely, arms crossing over his chest in a manner similar to the barricade he created before.

“Oh,” you may have jumped the gun on that one, “but you’re planning to?”

“See, yeah. That’s the thing. I asked Spy for help,” your stomach somersaults and you mentally curse it. “’Cause I don’t think Ms. Pauling,” he pauses, a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth. “She wouldn’t go for a guy like me.”

And without hesitation you stop, grab his shoulders and force him to meet your gaze.

“Scout,” you begin, watching his eyebrows go up. _How do I do this? Pep talk? Flattery? Brutal honesty?_ He’s watching you, uncertainty and a touch of fear laced in his darting eyes.

 _Honesty is the best policy._ “You’re an annoying piece of shit sometimes,” you say. His brows furrow, and you feel him start to pull away. Your grip on him tightens, shoving him down a bit so that he’s closer to eye level. “But you’re a good friend, you’re hilarious, and smarter than you give yourself credit for. You’re one of the best guys I know.” He softens, shoulders leaning into your touch and jaw slackening a trace. He’s practically melting from kind words. Maybe it’s the desire for physical warmth, or the need to make sure your words stick that makes you pull him into a hug, arms wrapping around his waist tightly.

He radiates warmth like an incandescent bulb, and you greedily press your face into his chest, succeeding in both assuring him and satisfying your body’s need for heat. His hands hover for a few seconds before resting gently on your upper back, finger pads just dusting over the fabric of your robe. You can hear his heartbeat racing to match the dance of his fingers across your shoulders, a jitter constant in each of the speedster’s movements, voluntary and involuntary alike.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” you mumble into his shirt, giving him a quick squeeze before pulling away to meet his eyes.

He doesn’t look nearly as nervous now, a determination in his wide-eyed stare mixing with the same giddiness from before. And there’s a surge of gratitude, thanks emanating off of him as his features shift into an optimistic smile.

“Am I interrupting something?” Your eyes squeeze shut, praying the question was a trick of your sleep-addled mind and not the resident Frenchman spotting you in Scout’s arms. Of course you wouldn’t have heard him coming, his stealth trumping your acuity every time.

You open your eyes hesitantly, jaw tensing when you see that yes, it is indeed Spy standing in your peripheral. You retract your arms and cross them over your chest, Scout mirroring you as you turn to face Spy and his trademark patronizing gaze.

Sleep and thoughts of Spy may have been enough distraction for you, but he seems to be tenser - more worn out than before if it was even possible. Dark shadows lining the underside of his eyes, suit dishevelled and movements plagued with weary sluggishness; it doesn’t look like he’s slept at all.

As you meet his eyes, the usual condescension is missing, replaced with a blend of fatigue and something you can’t quite put your finger on.

“I expect Scout has explained the situation,” he says, and there’s a quiet venom in his tone that you’ve heard a thousand times before, just never directed solely at you. He turns around and walks without warning, clearly expecting the both of you to follow.

“Actually, he hasn’t,” you reply, nodding to Scout and starting after Spy, jogging a bit to catch up with his retreating form. “If you would be so kind.”

“Scout has requested my aid in securing a date with Ms. Pauling, and seeing as we are dealing with romancing a woman, I felt it would be fit to have your assistance in the matter.”

Embarrassment slowly ebbing to make way for unease, you jog a bit more to reach his side. “And what exactly does my assistance entail?”

He doesn’t turn to you as he responds, and that’s a blow in of itself. “General commentary,” he says. You internally sigh with relief. Sitting in couldn’t be that bad, right?

“And teaching him how to waltz.”

_Shit. SHIT. SHIT. SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT_

“Are you sure I’m qualified to help with that? I’m not sure I’m too skilled.” You’d be proud of yourself for keeping your voice steady if it weren’t for the overwhelming dread now sitting on your shoulders, threatening to crush you. You fought to steady your breathing and to silence the unending mantra of curses streaming through your head.

“You will suffice as my teaching assistant,” _shit,_ “and Scout’s partner if need be.”

The underlying tension in his movements, intense to the point that it’s probably poisoning the air – it’s going to suffocate you if you don’t get out soon.

“I’ll go change,” you say, perhaps a little too bitterly. You could be cold and tense and unreadable too, if that’s how things are going to be now. Should you really waste the last 60 hours of your life being petty, though?

“Take your time,” he says. “I expect it’ll be a couple hours before I’m ready to begin.”

You nod, thanking whatever powers out there for excuses and rational thought and turning away, stalking down the hall.

“Wear a dress,” he calls.

_Shit._

* * *

You aren’t opposed to dresses or anything – in fact, you quite like this one. Sort of a light cerulean, flaring out at the waist, with a round neckline and full length sleeves. You bought it a while back, probably a couple weeks before you joined the team. They weren’t entirely clear about the job description upon seeking you out, and part of you started jumping to conclusions – undercover superspy missions, masquerading at formal parties in order to complete your goal. The shoes – white open toed with ankle straps that _may_ have been a bit tight and a low heel – had been purchased along the same line of thought.

So, you brought the ensemble, and after 4 years at RED base, you finally get to wear it. _If only it were under better_ circumstances, you think, the timer on your wrist flashing impatiently. _51:03:24, 51:03:23, 51:03:22…_

There’s a knock at the door, and judging by the soft shuffling of feet, Scout is anxiously waiting outside.

“Just a minute,” you call, fidgeting with the pearl necklace in your hands– a birthday gift from an old friend, only now recalled in fading photos and unreliable memories. Everything before Mann Co. feels like a lifetime ago, and the nostalgia solidifies fast, legs turning to lead as you stare at the door. _51 hours left._ There’s no way you’d ever see them again, not so close to the death sentence hanging over you.

_51:02:43._

Hands trembling ever so slightly, you place the pearls around your neck. It finishes off the look nicely, and the wistful mass weighing down on your shoulders lightens, as if the simple string of pearls wards off the futile longing. It’s an accessory, a balm, and a testament to someone, some way of living you’d long gone without.

Wearing confidence you don’t entirely feel, you stride over to the door and open it, trying to keep your chin up under Scout’s gaze.

His jaw doesn’t drop, his stomach doesn’t fill with butterflies, he doesn’t go weak in the knees, and it’s not like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again, but… you look good. Great, even. And judging by the slight tap of your fingers against the dress’s fabric, you’re a bit nervous at the thought of dancing. With him or with Spy, he doesn’t know, but he knows that he’s happy to return the confidence boost you gave before.

“You clean up nice, Y/N,” he tries, and the soft smile on your face does make his knees a bit weak, though he’d never admit it. He can’t get all doe-eyed over you when he’s got a date with Ms. Pauling in the next couple days.

“Thanks,” you say, softer than you expected. “I can see you’re all dressed up too.”

Red t-shirt, baggy brown capris and the signature dog tags – probably what he woke up in. He opens his mouth to defend himself when you wave it off, laughing gently.

You two begin down the hall, a comfortable silence settling as Scout leads you to the training gym. He’s still jittery, darting eyes and nervous fingers thinly veiled under his tough guy façade – one he never held up particularly well. He glances at you again, catching your gaze with a grin.

“Like what you see?” The teasing reminds you of a certain instance yesterday, and a vow you made to yourself. With much less force than you could actually muster, you punch his bicep, a surprised squeak escaping his mouth.

“What was that for?”

“For ruining the meeting yesterday,” you say, raising your eyebrows at him. It takes a couple seconds for the explanation to register, Scout racking his mind to find the fault in his actions.

“It was just a joke,” he defends, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain of himself.

“Not a funny one.” He frowns at that, your lack of appreciation for his clear comedic genius and his own remorse mingling uncomfortably as he turns away. The barest flecks of regret flash in your eyes, and now he’s slouching more, head down and lip jutting out in a pout. _Like a kicked puppy._

_51 hours. No time to hold a grudge._

“I know it didn’t even hurt,” you continue, trying to lighten the mood.

“Maybe it did!” He says indignantly. Whatever negativity piling up is swept aside as he argues with you, a childish bickering of “did not” and “did too” repeating itself as you enter the gym.

“I didn’t even try,” you say, the last word coming out as spirited singsong.

“I still want an apology!”

“For tapping your arm?”

“For bruising the merchandise!”

Your eyes are locked as the banter continues, quick shouts and mocking intonation echoing throughout the concrete room. There’s the reek of sweat mixed with tangy metal and worn leather, and just the slightest, _slightest_ hint of smoke.

It pulls you from the repartee, and Spy stands, unmoving, eyes unable to tear away from you. The warmth in your cheeks is nothing compared to the fire in your chest, tremendous and blazing as you force yourself to watch him.

He surveys you, eyes tracing up your legs and the curve of your hips, dancing along your shoulders and straying to your lips, lingering for perhaps a second too long. You mimic the process, trailing the black cap toe balmorals and slender legs, American cut suit jacket and classic collar, chapped lips, the ever present ski mask, and shocking blue-gray eyes. He gives a sort of appreciative nod at the end of his inspection, and the nerves are gone. Confidence emanating, you lower your head, a coy smile resting on your face as you give a slight curtsey.

Scout has picked up on the interaction by now, looking back and forth between the two of you like a tennis match. It’s almost a battle of wills, who will dare to look away first, and you've already lost this game too many times. Lifting your chin up and tilting your head back just a bit, you raise your brows and lower your eyelids, a decidedly suggestive smirk topping off your offense.

The heat in your stomach has nothing to do with the way his pupils dilate and lips part, not at all. A deep, open-mouthed breath signals your victory as he turns away, but the triumphant rush is nothing compared to the roaring flames tickling your chest, swirling lower down your abdomen. Another wave of internal cheering sounds as he loosens the knot of his tie, undoubtedly making an effort to compose himself.

The first time you win a staring contest with him, and it’s far more than just a game.

You sit at the side of the room, stifling giggles at the fiasco that ensues – something about Spy’s simultaneously helpful and embarrassing teaching methods combined with Scout’s confusion leaves you shaking with silent laughter. You lean back against the wall, one hand braced against your chest as the other covers your mouth.

Spy’s eyes wander to you despite his efforts to focus on the lessons, drawn to the escaped chuckles and bright eyes crinkling at the corners. It’s as if the aura of amusement surrounding you is magnetic. And it doesn’t help that you look ravishing, everyday beauty accentuated by the elegant attire. He hadn’t actually expected you to wear a dress, but he’s certainly not complaining. Unless you consider the small part of his mind scolding him for imagining playing with your skirt’s hem, bare fingers brushing your thighs. And for watching the pearls, sitting delicately around your neck, drawing attention to the curve of your mouth – pale pink lipstick against radiant skin that he desperately wants to touch. Your lips turn up, twist, part and purse, and as Scout scribbles notes down, he envisions their movements as you talk, how they would move if you sang to him.

And to hear you sing, painted lips close to his ear as you crooned softly – it inspires thoughts he doesn’t dare entertain in your presence.

His lectures continue for several hours, but you can’t bear to sit still for that long. By the time they finish, you’ve already moved most of Scout’s assigned reading to his room, and had several snack breaks. Walking in heels got irritating, but it was worth the shocked looks and stuttered compliments. Mundy had managed a new praise each time you swung by the kitchen, somehow always keeping it professional.

So far Scout and Spy have gone over dinner, a trial that took much longer than you would’ve expected. But it was nice hearing Tavish on piano and Mundy on sax, so you just sat politely and drank the wine, trying and failing not to laugh at the antics that ensued.

You could’ve gone without the stop by Medic’s lab, the single reminder of the situation at hand. Frustration was palpable in the workspace, mingled with a sense of urgency. Medic’s only acknowledgement of you was swatting Archimedes off your shoulder and a quiet comment in German. It was hard to catch, almost drowned out by the whir of machinery.

“Schönheit in der dunkelheit.” _Beauty in darkness._

A response died on your lips as he returned to his work, brows knit and beads of sweat dotting his hairline. It was familiar, a resolve fueled by fear and duty.

You understood the basics of Dell’s explanation, but it was hard to focus with Archimedes fluttering around your head. Spewing test results and outliers and conditions was all filler, though. The core point, unvoiced by Dell, was that they weren’t sure what to do.

With that to chew on, you had sat with Mundy for a long while, complimenting and chatting and doing anything you could to get your mind off the tumours.

You could almost feel them, growing and metastasizing under your skin, in between your organs.

_43:00:12._

When Mundy excuses himself, your unease spurs a headache, and you decide strawberries and beer aren’t going to help this time.

The abysmal selection in the fridge leaves you to delve into your hidden chocolate stash, something you normally saved for cravings and times in need of a pick-me-up.

Which you were _desperately_ in need of.

Numerous candy bars later, you assured yourself that with 2 days to live, there was no such thing as _moderation._

You return from your third chocolate pursuit, giddier than you thought possible given the circumstances. Spy has already brought out a cassette player, and Scout’s sitting cross-legged on the floor next to a beaten cardboard box, ruffling through a stack of tapes. Scout waves you over, telling you to help in the quest for decent music.

Spy stands in the corner, nursing another cigarette as he watches you two search through the pile. Whatever exhaustion he was dealing with earlier has been exchanged for admiration and resolve. Resolve to do what exactly, he isn’t willing to say, but as he watches you push up your sleeves and give that gentle, endearing smile, it’s not hard to discern. _Attachante._

The music selection is certainly a combination of Spy and Scout’s music, though mostly Scout’s, Louis Armstrong being tossed aside for Marvin Gaye and the Guess Who. You roll up your sleeves as far as you can and grab the discarded tape, a nostalgic contentment pulling at the corner of your lip as you read the song titles. _What a Wonderful World. Caberet. Dream a Little Dream of Me._ It’s been too long since you heard them, and you set it aside for later.

“You can’t dance to American Woman, Scout,” you chastise, pulling it from his grasp and putting it in a newly formed ‘Absolutely Not’ pile.

“Why ya gotta be such a drag, Y/N?” He looks at one with Hey Jude on it before adding it to the ‘yes’ pile, the Beatles joining the Five Stair Steps, the Archies, the Jackson 5 and Tom Jones.

“I think I’m pretty keen,” you reply, evaluating a Neil Young one. “But something tells me you and Ms. Pauling are gonna have a hard time dancing to an antiwar protest song.”

He lets out a good-natured ‘hmph’ before turning his attention back to the quickly diminishing pile. Don Mclean, Simon and Garfunkel, and Pink Floyd are put away, and Elton John, Raspberries and The Lovin’ Spoonful join the line-up.

And the last tape – familiar and worn, printed text nearly faded. _Sherry; December, 1963; Big Girls Don’t Cry;_ and… Yep, this one was going in the ‘yes’ pile.

The two of you stand, Scout going to put in a tape while you throw the rejected ones back in the box. Well, Scout would’ve thrown them. You take to neatly arranging them, carefully stacking them so as not to cause any damage. Sometime during the task, the opening bass notes of ‘I Want You Back’ start to play, and you tap your foot, a slight shift of your hips with each beat.

Turned away from the scene, you aren’t initially sure which man started dancing, but judging by the condescending snort, it was probably Scout. Shuffling footsteps and enthusiastic snaps conjure up an image in your mind, though your imagination does nothing to prepare you for the actual sight.

He’s taken off his hat and dog tags, eyes frighteningly wide and erratic movements entirely off-beat. You turn away, barely fighting off the disbelieving laughter threatening to burst. Spy is simply shaking his head, disdain easily visible as he meets your gaze, raising an eyebrow. You smirk, looking at Scout again only to flinch away.

Scout remains oblivious, lost in his own world as he dances – _if you could call that ‘dancing’_ – and you find yourself smiling at the ridiculous display, head bobbing along with the song.

_Trying to live without your love is one long sleepless night_

_Let me show you girl that I know wrong from right_

Then Scout darts towards you, pulling you by your wrist into the centre of the room. You freeze a moment, stomach dropping and voices of apprehension exploding in your mind, blending together in a dizzying array of frenzied whispers.

_You can’t dance - you’ll look ridiculous - people are watching - you’ll embarrass yourself - they’ll never forget - you’ll never live it down…_

The timer on Scout’s wrist catches your eye, reading _42:17:14._

Steely determination arises, squashing the panic and anxiety, because you cannot – _will not_ – waste any more time in fear. It feels like hours, but it’s only been a second or two, neither Spy nor Scout noticing the emotional battle you underwent.

You begin to mimic Scout’s movements, albeit with a bit more grace and timing, and soon thought devolves into movement, no reassurances or worries sounding either way.

_Oh baby, all I need is one more chance to show you that I love you_

_Won’t you please let me back in your heart_

_Oh darlin’, I was blind to let you go_

_But now since I’ve seen you it is on_

Scout laughs, and you do too, and you’re dancing around each other with the same look in your eyes – that you haven’t had this good a time in years.

You look utterly preposterous, and there’s no denying it. Limbs flying, wisps of hair tangling as you bob and weave, and you almost rival Scout in terms of absurdity. But the sheer abandon in your motions – reckless and careless and fearless – it’s the most incredible thing Spy has ever seen. Like a biblical miracle, defying all odds, all expectations. Stirring the witnesses to go forth with their lives to spread that enlightenment; and he will, with what little is left. The illumination – the joy, it’s written on your face, unadulterated and uncharacteristic, shocking and inspiring and endearing.

He revels in it.

With no forethought to his actions, he walks over, one hand on your waist and the other deftly grabbing your own. You falter for a moment, as does he, the same shock from before gripping you. Staring up at him, mouth open and unmoving, he’s made a mistake.

Only, as you smile and place a hand on his shoulder, he hasn’t. As an entity seconds ago – because you had been just that; an unattainable, unknowable entity – you illuminated a room, a planet, a mind. But it was nothing compared to you now. The sun is but a star in a galaxy, and a galaxy is but a speck in the universe, and he is certain you encompass it all in that one smile.

_Attachante._

You simply allow him to guide you, the same as the night before, dipping and twirling, laughing at both Scout’s expression and your own missteps. It’s not elegant, nor is it muddled, but effortless on both parts. The dance could’ve gone on indefinitely, the same box step and spins occupying you until the tumours took all sensation. You would have let it, too, if the music didn’t suddenly stop.

Scout stands in front of the machine, posture tense, looking through the approved tapes. He’d seen enough, and it wasn’t anger or jealousy that caused him to stop the player, no. Just the right amount of discomfort, like he was intruding on something. And maybe the slightest bit of envy.

Not of either of you specifically, though he wouldn’t mind being in Spy’s shoes. There was just some strange connection between the two of you. You hadn’t even had to _say_ anything; you both just fell into step. He can barely get a sentence out around Ms. Pauling, and you two just _know._

And, from a learning perspective, there was nothing dangerous or mysterious about any of _that_.

You untangle yourself from Spy, smiling all the while, and put a finger up to indicate you’d be back in a moment. Smoothing your dress, you walk over to Scout, plucking the Raspberries tape from his hand in favour of the Louis Armstrong.

He’s only surprised for a moment before falling back into ease, responding with a Scout-esque “Whadaya wanna listen to that for?”

“Well, since it seems you’ve _mastered_ dancing to pop songs,” you hear Spy scoff in the background, “let’s try something slower.”

You turn back to Spy, raising an eyebrow. _What now?_

He nods, gesturing for you to come forward.

“Watch Y/N and I and copy our movements with the training dummy,” he instructs, placing a hand on your hip.

The same seamless motions again, and you can hear Scout fumble behind you, your eyes closed as your head rests against Spy’s chest. You can feel his gaze on you, and you take a slow breath, inhaling the mixture of smoke and wine, relishing the feel of the silk tie and worsted wool pressed against your cheek. Peaceful, wistful, and it’ll all be gone too soon.

_Is that why this is happening? Are we just finding solace from thinking about it? In each other?_

_No._ Not on your part, anyway. Maybe the news was the tipping point, but you weren’t using him to stray your thoughts from death. _Your_ death. Which was inevitably coming in the next 2 days.

A shiver trickles down your spine, apparently causing a tremble as Spy holds you closer. You glance up to see that he’s still looking at you, the same kind of internal unease clear in his furrowed brow and tight lip. He seems to be more looking _through_ you, and his hand twitches. Needing a cigarette.

You squeeze his hand, and it seems to bring him out of his trance, puzzled gaze remaining for a moment before dissipating into a soft smile. And though you hate to ruin it, you have to ask. It’s clawing at you, hanging over you, weaving its way through you inextricably.

Death is inescapable, and it’s only a matter of time – specifically 42:14:34 hours, minutes, and seconds – before your meet your own.

“Are you scared?” you whisper, and it sounds so child-like that you grimace.

The grin fades in response, replaced by an expression of serious contemplation. It’s familiar, all too often seen during strategic meetings, but this isn’t planning a charge into battle. It’s a self-evaluation, and he’s silent for a minute. A silence that would’ve been deafening, if not for Armstrong’s gravelly tones.

_I hear babies crying and I watch them grow_

_They’ll learn much more than I’ll ever know_

_And I think to myself ‘what a wonderful world’_

_Yes I think to myself_

“Yes,” he answers, reply almost lost in the swell of music.

_'What a wonderful world.’_

It sits for a moment, the syllable being digested and analyzed in your mind. Even for you and Spy, two highly trained mercenaries that’ve been beaten, bruised, battered, and stabbed more times that you could count, death is frightening.

It is _terrifying_.

You thought you had come to terms with it. Never ready, never accepting, but you had resigned yourself to it. You had.

But that death – the death you’d begrudgingly learned to live with – was meant to be quick, painful, and out of the blue. No time to think. To regret. To remember all you were going to lose.

You knew you were never going to be ready.

You aren’t ready.

And you’re _terrified._

The player is silent, Spy is silent, and it’s all deafening.

You suck in a deep breath, chest heaving with the inhale and shuddering with the exhale. You press your forehead into Spy’s chest and then pull away, looking at Scout as he changes the tape. If only he could move faster, if only you hadn’t asked, if only you weren’t dying, if only, if only, if only.

Spy lets his concern mask his own fear, both intertwining in an uncomfortable mess of yarn in his stomach. Your expression is pleading, and he understands it far too well. 

Smooth brass fills the room, suggestive and happy, blissfully ignorant to the turmoil resting just underneath your skin. Spy’s body heat, memories of the warmth from earlier triggered by the familiar tune – you tell yourself to fall into them. Minutes ago you were care-free, and now you’re surrounded by icicles and waves and hurricanes and landslides, and you’re freezing and drowning and suffocating all at once.

Your chest feels hollow. How the hell were you happy at all today? You’re dying. And then what? What comes after that?

“Can I try with a real person, now?” Scout asks.

It’s so innocent and such a welcome distraction that you laugh – a real, raucous laugh that falls out of your mouth of its own account, like a disbelieving reflex. It resounds in the room, joyous as it cascades off the walls, and you’ve no idea where you managed to find it. You find yourself nodding, motioning him over, all on a sort of autopilot.

Spy has no qualms, because anything that cheers you up as of the moment, he amiably obliges.

Scout awkwardly places his hand on your waist, stare pinned on you to make sure he didn’t step out of line. You place a hand on his shoulder, tapping your fingers to the music, focusing on his features. _Distractions._ He takes your other hand and you let him lead, forcing the uncertainties from your mind. You desperately try to forget all but the warmth he radiates, into the steps and missteps. Spy evaluates his form and studies you, and the rest of the world slowly fades out.

It’s just you, Scout, and Spy.

And Frankie Valli.

Your heart rate has slowed down and your breathing has steadied, more attributed to self-discipline than actual calm. The thought of death wades in the background, icy and smothering, but melting bit by bit as Scout twirls and sways. The sweat on his brow and the sight of his tongue peeking out the side of his mouth is almost distraction enough. He dips you, a bit overexcited, nearly losing his grip and dropping you to the floor. You chuckle into his shoulder when he brings you back up.

You never bought that ‘laughter is the best medicine’ thing, but it sure isn’t hurting.

He’s slowly starting to hold you less like a porcelain doll and more like a person, easing himself into the dance. Less clinical, more passionate. He’s learned the ropes, he’s getting the hang of it, so why not add a personal touch?

It takes a moment to register that Scout is singing along with the music. He’s not great, but he can carry a tune, Boston accent meshing well with the Jersey coming across the speakers. He’s butchering some words and crooning out others, but pays the mistakes no mind. Just belting it. Loud and proud and on occasion hilariously off-key.

And just like that, death has flown from your mind out of pure shock, and you’re wrapped around Scout’s finger.

Of course, it’s not intimate and personal, not a sweet serenade in your ear. He’s singing more to the room than you, and it’s a full-blown concert, with eyes looking every which way and a voice howling for the whole base to hear.

You’d laugh if it wasn’t so earnest, and you’d swoon if it wasn’t so filled with bravado, so very Scout.

By the time the song ends, you’re out of breath, but every small sensation - the thin sheen of sweat on your skin and the scorch in your throat – reminds you that you’re still alive.

“Not bad, huh?” Scout asks

You place a hand on his shoulder, mostly to steady yourself. “You’re not Frankie Valli,” you grin, catching Spy’s eye, “but yeah, Scout. Not bad.”

You go to get a drink, returning to find Scout dancing rather expertly with the crash dummy. You lean against the door frame, observing. It’s only been a couple hours, but he’s improved dramatically. Scout’s always been a fast learner, though, so it’s no surprise. If only he put it to good use.

He finishes with an expectant look at Spy, the dummy’s head falling off, and you laugh softly, taking another swig from the beer bottle as you enter the room.

“Bravo,” you say, giving him a light punch to the arm. “Ms. Pauling won’t know what hit her.”

“Ya think?”

“I know.” He looks at you for a moment, really looks at you, and then you’re being tackled into a hug. Careful not to spill the beer, you bring your arms around him, lightly rubbing small circles on his back with your free hand.

“Thanks, Y/N.” It’s a whisper against the top of your head, paired with a soft exhale.

Scout is rarely surprising.

Annoying, bold, childish maybe, but never surprising.

Until today, a day in which he has twice been fantastic to the point of indescribability, has been ineffable.

Hearing him admit his inferiority over the speakers – that was indefinable for its hilarity and the exuberance it inspired. Surprising because it was so random and comedic.

This – this small expression of gratitude – it’s indefinable for its sincerity, its intimacy. The rush of warmth and the yearning for more time and the fear of losing him and the gloom of death crash together in spectacular brilliance, and all you can do to show it is pull him closer.

“Thank _you_ , Scout.”

“For what?”

“For everything.”

He pulls back to look at you, eyes searching your face. Scout’s signature cockiness is replaced by a sad smile, and your breath falls away into a mournful sigh. He nods, a slight incline of the head, and his hands move to cradle your face.

The kiss is chaste, just enough to convey the swell of emotions bouncing around in his head. A soft press of his lips against yours, thumb stroking along your cheekbone. Your hands rest on top of his, fingertips resting across the side of his palm.

It’s not romantic, nor is it particularly happy. Though you’d like to say it’s just an acknowledgement – of the violent collision of feeling explosive in your head, of your impending loss – it’s more.

It’s a goodbye.

He only glances at you for a moment before letting his hands fall to his sides and going to pick up the last stack of books. His steps echo down the hall, and no amount of lying to yourself can dull the ache that intensifies with each footfall.

Spy had been silent during the exchange, content to observe. Jealousy had almost spurred him to action, but rationale saw the kiss for what it was – a platonic farewell. Now, you stand before him, vulnerable and afraid, and concern again overpowers his fear. He watches the rise and fall of your chest with each breath for several minutes, waiting for you to calm.

Your breathing evens out and you finally turn to look at him, a gut-wrenching defeated expression plaguing your features. He tilts your chin up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Suis moi.”

* * *

Darkness shrouds the New Mexico desert, the pale light of the moon and the car’s headlights casting shadows across the sand and gravel. The wind whistles through the rolled-down windows and tickles at your hairline, the car radio switching between Elvis Presley and white noise. You’re curled up in the passenger seat, half-asleep as Spy drives down the desert trails.

He had neglected to say where you were driving to, but you trust him. And you’re too worn out to care.

It had to be at least 2 in the morning, if not later, the continuous blink of the timer’s _41:13:12_ flashing in front of your closed eyelids. Your feet were folded under you, shoes abandoned on the car’s floor boards. If it wasn’t Spy’s car, you’d have your heels up on the dash and your hands linked behind your head, but the cherry red Aston Martin warrants respect no matter the circumstances.

The purr of the engine across dirt roads is a dull roar alongside the silence of the desert, no lone coyote howls at this time of night. It’s simple. Peaceful with the uncertain wonder of a road trip and the stillness of the world. The engine's hum and the beating of tires against sandy roads lulls you to sleep.

Spy focuses on the road ahead of him.

There’s no passing cars or drifters hitchhiking or wildlife to be seen, nothing to distract him from the two thoughts at the forefront of his mind.

Death.

And you.

There’s something to be said about the irony in your situation. Day after day, you had all trained to be killed at any moment, fast and ruthless, and everyone at the base had accepted it, however begrudgingly. With a time and manner clearly stated, any mystery is taken out of the equation. Furthermore, the waiting is introduced, and the anticipation is the kicker, so to speak. Spy is a patient man, a trait necessary for his line of work, but there is no reward in waiting for downfall. There is only more meaning in the little time left.

Which brings him back to you. Lying unconscious and positioned uncomfortably in the passenger seat, your eyes move frantically behind your eyelids, hopefully a pleasant dream playing out in your head. It’s strange that you would deign to sleep, considering the situation. If anything, he expected you to be in constant motion, or to at least remain aware. You have so much to say, to laugh about, to learn, to experience, and your biological need for rest is stealing precious seconds off the remainder of your life.

Still so much left to do.

He reaches over, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger along your jaw, feather light touches so as not to wake you. Your lip quirks, head leaning into his touch.

So much left to do, and maybe even someone to share it with.

You awake to Spy’s hand on your shoulder, the car parked and the door open. Peering past him with eyes half shut, you examine the area, the light of the moon outlining the contours of the land. You blink a couple more times as you take in his appearance, surprised to see his suit jacket abandoned and his tie undone. The top buttons of his shirt are left open, the balaclava only reaching his collarbones and revealing a small patch of skin. Stretching and blinking rapidly, you exit the car.

You’re in the middle of nowhere, quite literally. Miles of dust lie in every direction, shrubbery and cacti dotting the horizon line. Spy lies down on a blanket laid across the ground, weighed down by rocks, and motions for you to join him.

Every movement is on autopilot, mind hazy from sleep and preoccupied with your approaching death. You lie down next to him, thoughtlessly laying your head on his outstretched arm. He glances at you for a moment before returning his gaze to the sky, littered with constellations.

A comfortable silence settles, June’s cold night air and the cicadas mixing for a soothing ambiance. His hand comes up to rest on your hip, the other supporting his mask-cladded head.

You had never seen his face, and you already miss him.

“Peux-tu voir Lyra?” He whispers. The soft tone is blaring against the desert’s calm, almost as if you’re upsetting nature’s dozing state.

“We’re stargazing, really?” You say, touched and pushed to the verge of tears at the thought. There’s a hint of a laugh in your breath, too, at how well he listened. He could probably repeat the list back to you, if he tried.

“It was conceivably doable in 70 hours.” You can feel his grin, the sly smirk he wore all too well.

“No, I can’t see it,” you answer after a few moments, a bit shocked to feel his arm tighten around you and his head tilt towards yours. His free hand extends towards the sky, finger pointing to a particular star.

“That’s Vega, and the parallelogram to the left along with the star to the right form Lyra, the harp,” he explains, breath warm against the top of your head. “It is said to be playing a dirge or epicede for a dying star.”

“How light-hearted,” you joke, feeling him grin into your hair. “Got anything less depressing?”

“There,” he says, guiding your gaze downward and to the right, “is the Hercules cluster, formed by hundreds of thousands of stars.”

“You know, most stars are already dead by the time you see their light in the sky.”

“How light-hearted,” he repeats, and you laugh into his shoulder. 

The smog and chemicals of cities always leave their skies somewhat unappealing, dark and desolate as opposed to the brightened array in front of you. And it’s gorgeous, a sight your dearly missed while resting from the days' exertion. You had meant to come out earlier, to appreciate the stars whilst you still had more time.

“It’s a shame we didn’t stay up more often,” you say. “This is incredible, and there’s only 3 hours ‘til dawn.”

“We take things for granted,” he states, as simple as if it were a comment on the weather and not a painstaking fault of humanity. “But, here and now, we are marveling at the constellations. It is best to think about what we have, and not what we are going to lose.”

But how could you not? Death would take everything in its wake. And you’d be a corpse in an old bread factory, life accumulating to nothingness as you decay under the hot New Mexico sun.

“Will people remember us?” You blurt, again sounding frustratingly child-like.

He retracts his arm from underneath you, leaning up on his elbows. A thousand yard stare plagues his features, wise and weary, but he does not have to think for long.

“Yes, they will remember you. Family and friends, strangers you’ve helped along the way,” he says with a wave of his hand. “They will remember you.”

“And you?”

His hand twitches, but he does not respond.

A minute of silence fills the air with the clicking of crickets and the faint howl of the wind. Your stomach sways uneasily with each breath, hands cradling your head as you stare up at the sky.

They say you’re never really gone as long as someone remembers you. And though you haven’t seen your family in years, you’re sure they won’t forget you so soon. They haven’t yet, if the occasional letters at the Teufort post office are any indication.

You never reply, to protect them from the goings-on of your work. They’d be endangered, if your professional life were to bleed into your personal one. That’s what you tell yourself.

Really, you’ve been running from them for 4 years. No sense in stopping now.

How many more letters will they send before giving up? They never have anything important to say – just updates on how everyone is doing, how much they’d love for you to visit. A declaration of love at the end of each message, x’s and o’s after the sender’s signature. They’ll be writing letters to a dead girl.

It’s comforting, in a morbid way. In under 40 hours, you’ll be gone, and the world will keep turning. They sun will rise on the next morning, and set the following night, and everyone will be there, writing their letters and wishing you well. Someone will remember you, or at least who you _were_.

Spy’s fingers tap against the wool blanket, a slight slip in his composure. There would be no one to remember him, after. Whatever ties he once had were severed long ago, the only individuals aware of his existence now being his colleagues and employers. The world was never supposed to see him, never meant to notice his presence. It will not miss him when he is gone, because it never knew he was there.

“Tu m’importes, Spy.”

His hand stills, shoulders taut as he looks down at you.

“Je ne serai pas là pour te souvenir,” you continue, “mais ici et maintenant, tu m’importes. J’espère qu’il est assez.”

It’s not exactly an ‘I love you’; you have no idea what love is, and that wasn’t going to change over the course of a day. Little clichés, heartbeats, and morning epiphanies aside, you know that Spy matters. Not in a macro sense, no, but to you. For a multitude of things - his dry wit, the striking intelligence, his calm under pressure and the accent that caressed each word, to name a few. You knew he would matter, from the moment you shook his hand, when he placed a feather-light kiss along your knuckles and breathed out a soft ‘enchantée’.

His eyes catch the moonlight, metallic blue irises blown wide in surprise, jumping out in the darkness and boring into your own. His jaw tenses, and relaxes, then tenses again. It’s fascinating, watching the gears grind in his head. A flurry of emotion solidifying into something concrete and communicable behind his eyes.

“C’est plus que assez,” he says.

And that is all the response that you get, before he turns over and cups your cheek, pressing his lips to yours.

When you first part, it’s tense, a worried silence settling as his eyes search yours. His lips are a bit pink from your lipstick, coarse hairs around his mouth in need of a shave. His eyes sparkle in the starlight, and your first instinct is to run.

Off the blanket, into the car or down the road, and to never speak of it again. You could run.

You watch fear creep into his face, too preoccupied with your own to silence his worries.  You promised yourself that you would not lose what little time left to fear, but old habits die hard, and you’ve run from him thus far. Running. Running. Running. When you first spoke French, at the sunset, last night…

His thumb brushes your cheekbone, soft but sure, and you’re hurdled back into the present. 39 hours left, and lying under the stars. Kissing Spy.

Maybe it’s not serendipitous. Or content. Or perfect. You suspect, as you have for God knows how long, but you don’t yet know. If you run, you’ll never know.

And you _desperately_ want to know.

Your resolution steady, you watch as he breathes in enough dust to cough, turning away and spluttering into the air. He smiles apologetically, and you chuckle before pulling him close again, apprehension gone.

You stay like that for a while, kissing with legs entangled and arms wrapped around each other. It’d be crude and a blatant understatement to say he’s good with his mouth. He’s an artist, each touch and skirt crafted to elicit chills and a battling warmth. You moan and laugh into his mouth, passion and happiness blending into each sound that escapes your lips.

He sighs contentedly as he marvels at you, smirking with each of your gasps like the smug bastard he is. He murmurs sweet nothings in French and English every little while, pressing gentle kisses along your jaw and behind your ear. Your stomach flutters, and you know as your fingers massage his back that the sentiment is mutual.

Neither of you takes it further, content to simply be together, entwined.

Eventually the sun rises, aflame across the desert sky. A tumbleweed rolls across the horizon, and you have to stop yourself from making a reference to an old western.

You both look out at the sky, brushes of orange and scarlet against the rising blue marking the passage of your steadily decreasing time.

And yet, it’s still comforting. The sun has risen today, and will set at dusk, and the world will not end with you. Strange, to find insignificance comforting.

“C’est beau, non?” You say.

“Oui,” he grins, propping himself up on his elbows and lacing his fingers between yours.

“Crois-tu en reincarnation?” You ask, mirroring his position.

“Fais-tu?” He turns to look at you, eyes briefly meeting yours before going off to trace the contours of your face.

“Je ne sais pas. Je veux croire à quelque chose. Qu'il y a quelque chose,” you pause, taking a shallow breath, “après.”

“Je ne fais pas. Pourquoi demandes-tu?”

“J’ai pensé,” your thumb brushes the back of his hand, “peut-être nous nous rencontrerons encore. Pendant le vie suivante.”

“Peut-être.”

* * *

The drive back is longer than you expected, the expanse of time filled with music from the radio and whatever thoughts came to mind. Things _feel_ normal, with the rambling and arguing. The timer on your wrist is the only thing out of place. Otherwise, this would be any normal drive, on a normal day.

Well, not entirely, the way your hand holds Spy’s.

The settings in the window slowly look familiar, and every moment closer to the base feels closer to home. Your story – the tale of the other mercenaries and you – started out as mutual loathing, deadpan snark and a common goal. And now, while still being all of those things, it’s infinitely more. Not anything so cliché as a family, but more than the slightly dysfunctional, strategic team you’d started out as. A friendship you cannot describe and are reluctant to let go, that started at RED base. At home. It’d be nice, to have it end there too.

* * *

Hectic.

Bizarre.

Fucking crazy.

A few choice terms coming to mind as you fight a giant bread monster. Definitely not how you thought you’d be spending your last hours.

You’d just gone to get a drink while Spy and the others supervised Scout’s ‘date’, and then there’s a crash, the ceiling’s fallen through, and you’re fighting a 2 tonne sentient loaf of bread.

There’s not much a sickle and a tranq gun with human-sized doses is going to do, nor knockout gas or a .30mm carbine. You’re equipped to handle people, with knives and guns and weapons targeted at the nervous system.

Does living bread have a nervous system?

Shooting is futile, and you resort to running around the room, dodging tentacles and gunfire alike. Soon you’re beside Mundy, cursing the lack of spare bullets on your person. A minute ago you were thirsty and about to die in 30 minutes; now you’re thirsty and about to die in 30 seconds. 

This is sort of the death you expected. Vastly different manners of execution, but the same, in a sense.

Mundy runs out from the cover, sniper pulled from his grasp by a tentacle. He pulls out his kukri knife and raises his arms to strike, and then Scout and Ms. Pauling are wheeling a bomb over – a fucking _bomb_ – past him. You both take off running towards the blast doors at Ms. Pauling’s command, and then you’re sighing with relief as you sit on the ground, pulling your knees to your chest.

You watch as everyone files in, Heavy shaking as he holds the door open for whoever is left. He yells something, but your ears are ringing too loud for you to make it out, and then there’s another crash. The doors close, a gap barely big enough for a person to fit through left between them.

A quick head count tallies 8 people, including yourself, and your heartbeat quickens as you try to remember the missing 3.  

Ms. Pauling, Soldier and Scout are still in there, with a bomb meant to detonate in half a minute.

Your lungs burn as you sprint towards the door, split metal cutting into your fingers as you try to wrench the panels open. It’s no use, _20 seconds_ , and you look at the others, your screams drowned out by the sound of destruction and falling debris.

They don’t move, nor do they look at you, all frozen in place as they stare at the closed door. You turn back to the task, _15 seconds_ , unable to look at the terror and regret written on their faces.

The gashes on your hands sting and bleed scarlet onto the floor, but you can’t stop. There’s still a chance.

Another 5 seconds, and Spy has a grip on your upper arm, tearing you away from the blast doors and pulling you to safety. Your mind screams at you to fight against his grasp, but your body falls limp in defeat, eyes tearing as you cough and wheeze.

He pushes you down to your knees and shields your body with his own. The pain in your hands is fresh and vicious, clenched fists relaxing in an attempt to lessen the sting. You don’t know how much time is left, but you can see Spy’s mouth move out of the corner of your eye.

Everything goes white.

* * *

Consciousness hits you like a freight train, your eyes darting open as a headache comes full force. Your vision takes a couple minutes to adjust, eyes blinking wearily into the room’s darkness. Your head rests on a pillow, blankets tucked up to your chin.

Turning to the side, you see an alarm clock – your alarm clock; this is your room – reading 3:34 AM. You sit up slowly so as not to aggravate your head, and then glance at your wrist, surprised to see it bare.

Your 72 hours is up. Yet, you’re still here. Your heart is beating, your lungs are expanding and contracting, and you can see the red glow of the alarm clock. You’re alive.

Reaching out tentatively, you palm around a bit before finding the lamp, deftly switching it on. The room is illuminated and your head protests, but you can _see_. The crimson fabric of the comforter and the beige walls and the wooden bookshelf and the man asleep in your armchair.

His habitual appearance still stands, with the perpetual dark circles under his eyes and the scruff of a 5 o’clock shadow. All typical, comfortingly typical, save for one thing.

He isn’t wearing his mask.

The smile on your face is near painful as you fall back asleep, but only after you mapped out each contour and crevice, committed every blemish and curve to memory.

* * *

You wake to Medic inspecting the wounds on your hands, steadily healing but still painful to the touch. You hiss as he removes the bandages, and the unrestrained glee on his features is an image you’ll never forget. He maintains professionalism for enough time to ask routine questions, and then he sprints out the door, no doubt announcing your awakening to the entire base.

Spy is gone, but you have little time to dwell on it as Scout comes bounding in, almost out of breath as he sits on the bed. You were only out for two days, if Medic is to be believed, but he looks at you as though he hasn’t seen you in months. He’s quiet for a change, all breathless smiles.

Tavish and Dell are in next, fawning over you and chastising you, too happy to be stern. After insistent questioning, Dell finally takes his focus off you to explain the tumour situation, or really the sentient-growth-in-wheat-products situation. Tavish brought a beer for when the headache subsides, but opens it for himself as Mundy walks in. A tip of the hat and a ‘you had us right worried there for a second, mate’ are enough to bring tears to your eyes, and you laugh as they stream down your face.

Soldier barges in, Pyro and Heavy tailing behind him. He’s in the middle of some spiel about his personal bout with Erwin Rommel, the ‘Desert Fox’, looking quite affronted when Heavy shushes him.

Medic returns, and in his wake is Spy, disheveled yet remarkably cheerful as he enters. There’s a bounce in his step, and not-so-subtle glares at the other men. They take the hint, filing out with goodbyes and ‘see you soon’s, and the two of you are left alone.

“Comment ça va?” He says, taking your hand in his. His lip is quirked just a bit, the hint of crow’s feet around his eyes. The romantic side to him is strange, familiar but outstandingly genuine. Stranger is the thought that it’s directed at you. You can’t help but linger on the mask and remember the skin it conceals, and you trace the curve of his jaw with your eyes before meeting his.

“Vivante.” You sound winded, the syllables coming out airy as you grin at him.

“J’étais effrayé,” he says, soft, like it’s a confession.

“Je suis ici,” you squeeze his hand, “et je ne quitte pas.”

He nods, and you move to give him more space on the bed. He sits down properly, gaze steady on your joined hands. There’s a twitch in his fingers, a tension in his arms that alludes to his unease. You put your head on his shoulder and sigh contentedly, hair tickling his neck.

You stay in that position for a few minutes, but the edginess in his form does not fade. Chewing your lip, you sit up, a bit nervous but sure of what to do.

He looks at you in surprise, puzzled as your hand withdraws from his. Clasping your hands together in front of you, you straighten your posture and take a deep breath.

And you sing.

He blinks in confusion, and then his jaw falls open in awe, mouth parted and a smile stretching across his face. As your voice flows through the air, full and euphonious, you have become an entity once again. The sun and the stars and the galaxy bowing to your voice.

_Attachante. Indescriptiblement attachante._

He’s marveling at you with an awestruck smile, and in that moment, it’s serendipitous. Content. Perfect.

 But love isn’t fairytale moments in an ornate leather-bound book or framed in a picture, as Scout skids to a stop in front of your room and yanks the door open, joining you in your rendition of the Frankie Valli tune. Something about Scout crooning the chorus sends you into a fit of laughter, and he continues his solo as he trounces out of the room, chased by an irritated Spy.

Your stomach aches by the time the laughter subsides, and Spy is torn between frowning and chuckling along with you.

“So,” you say, “that’s singing off the list. There’s still skydiving, bonfires, cliff-jumping, skiing, that Nobel Prize, Mandarin,” you count each one off on your fingers. “Got a couple done, at least.”

“What’s next?”

“Writing that book, I suppose.” You resituate on the bed, head resting in the crook of his neck.

“And falling in love?”

You smirk up at him, lacing your fingers with his, and take a deep breath.

“I’ve still got time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS TOOK WAY TOO LONG. It ended up being much longer than anticipated, and school and life took precedence. I am so sorry. Aced my exams though.
> 
> So the dress (bottom left): https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/f3/3d/99/f33d996951c1e02aae9041e9b42c82b8.jpg
> 
> The shoes (bottom left but white): http://www.soyesterdaysovintage.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/Vintage_1960s_Shoe_Designs_1967-69a.gif
> 
> Spy's Car: http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2009/11/21/article-1229943-074E3DB1000005DC-129_468x286.jpg  
> It's the closest I could get to what we see in Unhappy Returns, so enjoy.
> 
> Please excuse my low-level French.  
> French Translations:  
> "Look at the sunrise."  
> "It's beautiful, isn't it?"  
> "Yes."
> 
> "Follow me."
> 
> "Can you see Lyra?"
> 
> "You matter to me, Spy."  
> "I won't be there to remember you, but here and now, you matter to me. I hope that's enough."  
> "It's more than enough."
> 
> "It's beautiful, isn't it?"  
> "Yes."  
> "Do you believe in reincarnation?"  
> "Do you?"  
> "I don't know. I want to believe in something. That there's something... after."  
> "I don't. Why do you ask?"  
> "I thought, maybe we'll meet again. In the next life."  
> "Maybe."
> 
> "How are you feeling?"  
> "Alive."  
> "I was scared."  
> "I am here, and I am not leaving."
> 
> 'Endearing. Indescribably endearing.'
> 
> Have no idea how correct the grammar is, so please point out any errors and I'll be happy to fix them. And I know even less about German than I do french, so who knows if that bit is right.
> 
> I'd been trying to write finish this for while, with a beginning and end conjured up but no middle. Decided to sit down and finish it after an idol of mine, Monty Oum, passed away. He was a major animator at Rooster Teeth and really the means of how I was introduced to the rest of the company beyond Red vs. Blue and Achievement Hunter. I never met him, but I was looking forward to it at this year's RTX. Monty was all about efficiency and making the world a more beautiful place through creativity, so I'm going to try to write or draw every day to honour that. This work, and anything I do in the future, is partially dedicated to him and that spirit.
> 
> Goodnight, Monty and thank you.
> 
> So please leave any feedback you have because I need to become a better writer, and I hope you liked it!

**Author's Note:**

> So really I have A LOT more that I want to do with this, but because I should be writing my RvB fic Kid and actually doing schoolwork, I'm leaving it at this. But I want it to be a multi-chap overarching thing with the TF Comics right now. Only have to wait a year for the next one! 
> 
> Yeah, I know. I'm sad too. Might make it separate actually, but the Reader would be a whole new class I came up with (which I think is pretty damn cool, just you wait). 
> 
> And for the times, the story starts in 72, making it 76 now. Yeah, that's good. I just wanted a bit more music to choose from.
> 
> Also, so many things I could've named this. Attachante, Bucket List, Can't Take My Eyes Off You. This was not an easy decision.
> 
> 22/9/2015 OKAY So now that I've revisited this, another song has become very prominent in my iTunes library and it would be perfect for this so I'll see if I can come up with either a continuation or the over-arching thing I mentioned long ago which will either include this piece or not, but will definitely include the song. It's just so perfect. I don't want to ruin it but I'm so pumped. Will try to write something soon, hope you're having a good day.


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